Declan’s given me very little information about this leg of our adventure. I know that he’s taking me to the headquarters of his club—Dante’s Nine. But what I should expect is a total mystery to me.
We ride out, away from the shiny center of Vegas. As soon as we turn off the strip, it’s like peeling back a layer of the city itself. Things get gritty real quick when you veer off the beaten path around here. Declan guides us down long, foreboding streets and through loud, narrow alleys until finally we’re almost clear of the city. The dusty desert reveals itself once more as we trail along the very edges of town. And there, straight ahead, is our destination.
From afar, the lair of Dante’s Nine looks like any other biker bar. A low, brick and battered wood joint boasting all the trappings of any watering hole. Neon signs glow in the windows, dwarfed by the most prominent symbol of all: that pair of dice that graces the back of Declan’s cut. A row of powerful bikes stretches along the front of the bar, each more impressive than the next. I didn’t think these places existed outside of trashy made for TV movies, and yet here we are.
As Declan pulls up to the bar and cuts the engine, I can hear the noise from inside thumping and roiling in the air. Heavy rock, raised voices, and clinking glasses seem to be the soundtrack around here.
“This is it,” Declan says, looking up at the bar with fondness, “The Forty-Five Club.”
“Right, very clever,” I say, eyeing the Dante’s Nine sigil gleaming in the window.
“You ready for this?” Declan asks, offering his hand to help me off the bike.
“You know it,” I reply, jumping down without his assistance, “Though, to be honest with you, I’m not entirely sure why meeting your biker buddies is necessary for us doing business together.”
Declan looks at me seriously, his eyes blazing in the near-darkness. “I need you to understand every part of my life, Kassie. Every part of me. That’s the only way we’re going to be able to trust each other.”
I’m taken aback by his tone. There’s a sudden solemness to him that I’ve never seen before. “OK, Declan,” I say, “I’m game. Just asking.”
“Here’s a little advice for hanging around me,” Declan says, setting off for the bar, “Don’t ask too many questions, if you can help it.”
He tugs open the front door of the Forty-Five, and a wall of sound hits me square in the chest. Here goes nothing, I guess. I hurry to follow Declan as he steps into the bar, and down the rabbit hole we go.
“There’s our boy!”
“Where you been, brother!”
“Declan! Hey, Declan!”
A volley of greetings rises up from the assembled men inside. I look from one face to the next, trying to get a read on this place. A couple dozen men and women hang around the worn, gritty bar. I spot several cuts just like Declan’s on some of the men. Even a few of the women are sporting the Dante’s Nine symbol on their bodies. I force myself to move further into this place, though every cell in my body wants to cut and run. I’ve come this far. No way I’m running away just yet.
“Beer on the house, Dec,” says the bartender, a muscled man in his forties with soulful eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard.
“Thank you kindly, Saul,” Declan replies, “Mind making it two? I’ve got a special guest here with me tonight.”
All at once, every eye in the place is on me. I draw myself up, trying to look as strong and sure as possible. Inside, of course, I’m having a nice little panic attack. Or two. The men make no effort to hide their leering grins, the women are all suspicion and hostility. Swell.
“Come here,” Declan says, beckoning me to the bar, “I want you to meet everyone.”
“Hey...everyone,” I say, lowering myself onto a polished wooden bar stool.
“This your new intern?” asks a man to my left. He’s only a couple years older than me, by the looks of him. His boyish face sports an open, energetic grin, as well as a huge tribal tattoo around his right eye. He’s wearing the Dante’s Nine patch, too.
“That’s me,” I say, speaking for myself, “Name’s Kassenia. Kassenia Bennett.”
“Christ, that’s a mouthful,” laughs another cut-clad man from behind me. He’s short and stout, grizzly as hell. “My name’s Kip. Plain and simple,” he says, “That rabid dog with the stupid tattoo is Oliver.”
“Ollie’s fine,” the young man grins, “All my friends call me Ollie.”
“What friends have you got outside these four walls?” Kip scoffs, smacking the younger man on the back of the head.
“Two beers,” says the bartender Saul, handing Declan and I a couple of ice cold bottles, “S’nice to meet you, Kassenia.”
“Quit flirting, Saul,” grumbles another man, sitting down between me and Declan. He’s got a couple of years on my new boss, at least. His big, bushy beard and black beanie make him look more like a lumberjack than a biker.
“I’m Sam,” the man says, actually extending his hand to shake.
“Hey Sam,” I reply as my hand gets swallowed up by his giant mitt, “Kassenia.”
“You must be awfully brave, putting yourself in this maniac’s hands,” Ollie laughs, knocking back the last of his whiskey, “Declan doesn’t seem much like the caretaker type to me.”
“Good thing I can take care of myself then, isn’t it?” I shoot back, taking a slug of my beer.
“Listen to that!” Kip howls, “Got yourself a firecracker here, Declan.”
“More like a Roman Candle,” Declan says, shooting me a knowing wink.
A warm glow of pride swells inside of me. Maybe this won’t be such a terrifying experience after all.
“So, you three are Declan’s brothers?” I ask, looking between Sam, Kip, and Ollie.
“Sure are,” Kip barks, “Dante’s Nine is thick as blood, girlie. You’re looking at our own family reunion, here!”
As if on cue, a new pack of people appear around me, sizing me up. I swivel around on my barstool, taking stock of the company. Two huge dudes, twins by the look of them, stare at me with unwavering looks. They wear Dante’s Nine cuts, and certainly look to be the muscle of the group. Their heads and faces are shaved clean, their every muscle hard and thick with use. Either one of them could snap me over his knee like a twig.